


Snowfall Dares

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold hands... cold feet... warm hearts.  (An expansion of my double drabble <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/275978">You Wouldn't Dare</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowfall Dares

**Author's Note:**

> Written February 2005

When snow fell upon the sleepy town of Hobbiton, and lay in a thick blanket on the ground, there were few who did not pause to gaze in wonder at the dazzling sight it made. A diamond sparkle bathed the land in richness. Black shadows lingered in dips and hollows, in stark contrast with all the blinding white. And overhead the azure sky hung low and brilliant, with nary a cloud to mar its pristine hue.

“Picture perfect”, Samwise Gamgee murmured to himself. He leaned upon his shovel and breathed in the crisp, pure air, his heart swelling with joy at the lovely sight laid out before him. _Nothing could be more beautiful than this_ , he thought. _Nothing._

But as a large green door creaked open, and the Master of Bag End strolled out of his smial and cast his bright-eyed gaze upon the scene, Sam readily admitted he'd been wrong. There was one thing more beautiful than the glory of the day: naught could match the splendor of his master's blue eyes, his creamy complexion, the dark hair tumbling across his face as a playful breeze tossed silken strands...

Frodo smiled a warm greeting, and Sam's toes curled in the snow.

“It would appear you have your work cut out for you,” Frodo called, gesturing at the deep drifts still to be shovelled from his walk.

“Aye, sir, that I do!” Sam sternly gathered up his straying wits. “After I finish here, I'm off to the Widow's. Then there's the Deerfoots to lend a hand to. And the Proudfoots, and the Chubbs... Not to mention the--”

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed. “When do you get to enjoy the day? I can't remember the last time we had this much snow. It's so beautiful.”

_You're so beautiful..._

For a heart stopping moment, Sam was sure he'd spoken the words aloud, for a most peculiar look flickered across his master's face, and the gaze Frodo settled upon him was suddenly piercing in its intensity. But the moment was quickly gone, and Frodo chuckled ruefully.

“I suppose you take far less pleasure in the snow than do I. It's just another chore for you to tackle. Poor Sam.” His face brightened. “I know! I'll fetch a shovel and help you! That should move things right along.”

“You wouldn't dare!” Sam blurted.

“I beg your pardon?” Frodo eyed Sam curiously, an obvious edge of disapproval in his stare. “I would not _what_?”

“That is-- I mean--” Sam floundered, wishing the snow were twice as deep that it might better hide him. “There's no need for you to bother,” he continued lamely. “It's a rare day and I'd hate for you to waste it...”

“I see,” Frodo murmured finally. “Very well, Sam. I'll just stand here and watch you work -- maybe pick up a few pointers on how to handle a shovel. It looks terribly complicated to me.”

“Sir,” Sam begged, “what would folks think? 'Look at that stupid Gamgee lad, too lazy to do his own work.' ”

“You mean, 'look at that crazy Baggins, too stupid to know any better.' ”

“I'd never say that, sir!”

“You just did, Sam.” And Frodo quietly stepped inside his smial and firmly closed the door.

* * *

“What did you think he'd say?” Frodo asked himself furiously. “It's not like I'm one of the Cotton lads. He'd accept their offer eagerly enough, no doubt. But I'm 'the Master.' It 'wouldn't be proper.' ” His teacup rattled angrily in its saucer as he slammed it down on the tabletop. “I might chip a nail or faint in a snowdrift.”

The sugar bowl chattered nervously as it came to rest beside the teacup. The cream pitcher followed with a slosh of dismay.

“ 'What would folks think?' ” he snorted. “What would they say if I grabbed Sam by his ears and kissed him senseless? What if I wrestled him down into the snow and ravished him right on the spot? Would that shock them any more than if I happened to shovel a bit of snow?”

As if pole axed, Frodo abruptly dropped into his chair and stared down at his trembling hands. _Where did that 'what if' come from?_ he wondered numbly.

“What if I kissed him...” he whispered. And quite forgot to drink his cup of tea as he contemplated that unexpected, but not unappealing thought.

* * *

Sam's usually buoyant steps carried him shuffling home like an old gaffer late that night. How could such a perfect day play turn about and end so horribly? His feet were numb from the cold, his back and arms weary from long, hard hours of shovelling. But more than all his physical aches and pains, the anguish of his heart most wore him down.

 _I hurt his feelings_ , Sam thought miserably. _What would it have harmed to let Mr. Frodo shovel a little bit of snow? Who was there to see us? And if they saw, what did it matter? If he didn't care, why should it bother me?_

Sam kicked at a lump of snow, wincing when expected softness turned out to house a solid core.

Just like Frodo...

That unexpected strength at the centre never failed to surprise the good folk of Hobbiton. They looked at Frodo's too slender body, his fey grace, and thought him soft, weak, spoiled. Sam knew him to be none of those things. He could not imagine a stronger hobbit, or one less concerned with himself than he was for others.

_Yet I up and treated him just like me Gaffer would. All puffed up with being proper, never paying no mind to the fact that his being different shouldn't mean that he's an outcast. He needs company, like any other hobbit. He was trying to be one of the lads..._

Sam sighed and tilted his head back to study the darkening sky. Swift gathering clouds on the horizon... More snow tomorrow, or his name wasn't Samwise Gamgee.

Sam squared his shoulders determinedly. He'd face that storm when it came. And as for Mr. Frodo... well, he reckoned he could weather that storm too.

After all, what mattered most, the good opinion of the likes of Ted Sandyman, or the happiness of the dearest hobbit in the Shire? If loosening the binds of propriety now and then brought joy to Frodo's lonely life, well then, that's just what Sam would do. And gladly.

* * *

As grey fingers of morning light crept between his poorly drawn curtains and danced upon his face, Frodo moaned and rolled away from the unwelcome intrusion. A long night of soul searching had ill prepared him for the day. A bottle of Old Winyards to aid his thought process had seemed a good idea at the time. In retrospect, he could well have done without it.

Sam's cheerful whistle and the repetitive scrape of his shovel on the walk served to further darken his mood.

Snapping the coverings back with an angry twist, Frodo crawled from his warm nest and staggered over to a frosted windowpane. It was snowing. Big, fluffy flakes that stuck and clung to every surface. Branches drooped disconsolately beneath the weight of their lacy trim. Sam's hair was crowned with snow, his jacket now more white than brown. His bright red mittens seemed to float in mid air, rhythmically moving back and forth as if conducting an orchestra, as they gripped a nearly invisible snow shovel's handle.

Frodo found he could not take his gaze from this splash of colour in an otherwise monochrome world. All his noble resolutions of the night before toppled beneath a sweeping wave of longing that left him gasping with despair, shivering with the wanting.

“Oh, Sam,” he murmured weakly. Apparently, ignoring these new-found feelings was going to be harder than he'd thought. But he was honour bound to try.

Sam was a good lad, if obviously obsessed with propriety. The least Frodo could do was to respect this, and be a proper sort of master. No matter that his mind had just been opened to a wealth of tempting possibilities...

 

* * *

Fast as he shovelled, the snow was faster still. Less than halfway up the walkway, Sam knew the cause was lost, his work in vain. Still, he shovelled and whistled and waited patiently. He knew his Mr. Frodo. The master might be miffed that his offer of help had been rebuffed the other day, but he would not leave Sam out here in the snow without offering a steaming cup of tea, or a warm-up by the fire.

Sam would find a chance to say his 'I'm sorries' and Mr. Frodo would be gracious and forgiving -- as he always was. And life would fall back into a comfortable routine -- as it always did. But this time Sam would make some changes to the pattern. This time he'd welcome Frodo's aid and company. And Frodo would smile... and not even the sun would shine brighter, or more warm Sam's heart.

The green door swung open, just as he knew it would. And there stood Frodo, wrapped in his warmest jacket, with blue mittens to match the deep blue of his eyes. Two steaming mugs were clenched in one hand, while he fumbled to pull the door shut with the other.

Sam hid a smile. Apparently, forgiveness was going to come as easily as he had hoped it might. Frodo was starting off the morning predictably.

Sam leaned upon his shovel and quietly regarded his master. “Morning, sir,” he said, venturing to test the waters.

“Good morning, Sam,” Frodo replied. And much of the good cheer vanished from Sam's heart when he heard the coolness of his master's tone. Clearly, all was not forgiven.

Still, Frodo held a mug up questioningly, and Sam stuck his shovel in the snow and waded through the drifts to accept the welcome treat.

They sipped in silence, Frodo with a defiant sort of look upon his face, and Sam in quiet contemplation of what that look might mean.

Still in silence, Frodo received Sam's emptied mug and turned to go back inside.

It was now or never. Sam drew a deep breath and began his well rehearsed apology. “ 'Bout yesterday, Mr. Frodo, I'm sor--”

Without missing a step, or turning his head, Frodo held up a commanding hand. “Think nothing of it, Sam. I was out of place, and you simply reminded me of that fact. I assure you, it won't happen again.”

Oh, and that was not the way this conversation was supposed to go. Sam frowned, and tried a different track.

“This snow is mighty pretty, but it's hard for one hobbit to keep up with it the way it's tumblin' down.”

Frodo did turn at that, and cocked his head to one side consideringly. “Indeed,” he finally replied. “Perhaps you should come back later, Sam, when it will not be such a waste of your time.”

And if that wasn't a clear dismissal, Sam was a 'tater. Head down, he trudged back to where he'd left his shovel, but he made no move to take it back in hand. Instead, he trailed his hand across the drift's crest, and gathered up a generous handful of the sticky snow. Casually, he rolled it into a loosely packed ball, all too very aware of Frodo still standing there staring at him.

And then he lifted up his chin, and let his dancing hazel eyes fully meet Frodo's curious gaze.

“You wouldn't dare,” Frodo said, with all the cocky arrogance befitting the Master of Bag End. Disdainfully, he eyed the snowball Sam was tossing from mittened hand to mittened hand. A smug smile curved his lips as he turned to walk away.

 _What would you do if that was Jolly Cotton over there?_ Sam asked himself. There was but one answer to the question, of course. A challenge had been issued: drastic measures were required.

A well practiced flick of Sam's strong wrist, and...

A cold, wet mass contacted firmly with the back of Frodo's head.

For an instant, there was no sound or motion save the whispered rustle of large snowflakes tumbling down.

Frodo spun around, a look of disbelief widening his blue eyes. And so he caught the second snowball full in the face. The third more safely targeted his chest.

The mugs dropped to the ground, disappearing from view with little poofs of white powder. Frodo hastened to scoop up a handful of snow... and the battle was on.

Frodo's whoop and Sam's answering holler echoed across Bag Shot Row as a fierce barrage of snowballs filled the air. Frodo's aim proved to be every bit as deadly as Sam's. And soon the two more resembled a child's hastily assembled snow-hobbit than they did actual hobbits.

Duck and throw, advance and retreat... Around and around the garden they circled, launching fierce attacks and making heroic stands.

Sam finally won the upper hand, had actually pinned his master in a corner and was pelting him mercilessly with hastily formed snowballs, when his foot slipped on a patch of ice and down he went. Flat on his back, gasping for breath, he observed Frodo's approach with resignation. There was no mercy in his master's eyes.

Sure enough, abandoning even a pretense of finesse, Frodo scooped up an armful of snow and simply let it drop on Sam's flushed face. While Sam was still sputtering from the shock of this assault, Frodo unceremoniously plopped himself down upon his gardener's chest, and blue mittened hands began to stuff snow down his neck.

Sam let out a howl of protest, arched his back and flipped Frodo into the snow. He lost no time in pinning down his opponent, his greater strength enabling him to hold both of Frodo's hands above his head with but one of his own. His free hand lazily scooped up a generous mound of snow.

“You wouldn't dare,” Frodo whispered. Melted snow clung to his eyelashes, sparkling there like tears...

Sam smiled and released Frodo's trapped hands.

And then he used both of his own to triumphantly stuff snow down the collar of Frodo's jacket.

* * *

Frodo shivered and sank deeper into his steaming bath, the blessed warmth of the water penetrating his chilled flesh with pin-prickles of pleasure/pain. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to the moment, a slight smile curving his lips as he rested his head against the deep tub's rim.

The homey clatter of pots and pans and Sam's soft voice raised in song drifted down the hallway; Frodo's smile deepened.

What a most extraordinary day it had turned out to be. How far removed from his dark mood of the morning. It was clear Sam was a hobbit full of surprises. If only... If only every day could be as full of laughter and Sam's sweet company... If only that friendship were enough... If only...

 _If only I didn't hunger so for his touch_ , Frodo thought longingly, his contented smile fading now, to be replaced by a grimace of raw need. _How strong Sam is, how easily he held me at his mercy, how good it felt to feel his weight upon me_ , he mused. His soap-slicked hands stoked the pale skin of his chest, trailed across his lean stomach and sank down to caress his hardening flesh. Dark curls dipped beneath the water as his head arched back on a soft moan of delight.

_So much for maintaining a proper demeanor..._

Frodo's fist moved faster on his rigid shaft. “Sam....” he murmured helplessly, and spilled into his hands.

As if conjured out of thin air by the very mention of his name, a light knock came upon the bath chamber door.

“I've stoked up the fires and set some stew to heat, Mr. Frodo,” Sam called. “If there's naught else you need, I'll be off home...”

Frodo sloshed a goodly portion of his bath water over the side in his haste to exit the tub. “Wait, Sam,” he cried, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist and flinging open the door.

Sam turned back questioningly.

Frodo took swift note of his servant's still rosy cheeks, the obvious dampness of his clothes, the red chafe marks where ice crystals had scraped his neck. Self-consciously he fingered the matching scratches on his own collarbone.

“You look half frozen,” he said hesitantly. “There's plenty of hot water left. It's a shame to let it go to waste...”

The automatic refusal forming on Sam's lips suddenly turned into a small, grateful smile. “If you'd not be minding, sir,” Sam murmured. “I am a mite chilled.”

“Please,” Frodo stepped aside and gestured for Sam to enter the steam-filled room. “Take your time, Sam. I'll just whip up some biscuits to go with your stew. And I'll leave some of Bilbo's clothing here by the door... You'll stay for supper?” He could not conceal the plaintive note that crept into his voice with this question. He didn't want this day to end. Even if it could never end the way he really wanted...

Sam's gaze fell to his feet and Frodo's heart plummeted downward in tandem. But, wonder of wonders, the green-hazel eyes slowly lifted back up, crawling across the wet expanse of Frodo's skin until they firmly settled on his blue eyes.

“Aye,” Sam whispered shyly. “Aye, sir. I'll stay.”

* * *

Sam efficiently emptied Frodo's cooling bath and refilled the tub with a generous allotment of fresh, hot water. As he settled into the depths, sighing with pleasure at the welcoming warmth, the thought flickered in his mind that scant minutes ago this very tub had cradled a naked Frodo. How intimate an act it seemed to be here now, naked himself, smelling traces of the bath oil Frodo favoured... using his favourite soap...

Why it was almost as if his master was still present in the room... as if he'd wrapped his arms around him in a warm embrace.

Sam allowed himself a little smile at this whimsical notion. How very unlikely it was that Mr. Frodo had ever harboured such an outlandish notion! He was the very model of decency and scholarly decorum.

But Samwise Gamgee was not above indulging in fantasy. He had loved his master too long, too desperately, to let a single instant slip past where reality and the fantastic bushed hands. No touch, no glance, no smile, no frown or gesture Frodo made failed to move Sam's heart. To be here now, like this...

Sam's hand slowly dipped below the water's surface, as he began to stroke his eager flesh, imagining that it was his master's smaller, smoother hand supplying the caress. How would that feel? How could he bear it? Oh, if only...

Sam's breath whooshed out in a contented sigh as he climaxed.

And the fantasy was over. Sam sat in the rapidly cooling water, hot tears trickling down his cheeks. What kind of a game was he playing? How foolish to indulge in this madness -- under the master's own roof, no less.

There was a very good reason Sam was so determined to maintain his proper place, his proper distance. And that reason was because he didn't trust himself. This gift he'd given Frodo had cost him dearly. One taste of freedom, a few short hours of pretending that he and Frodo were equals... and see how his defenses had crumbled.

“Ninnyhammer!” Sam mumbled, scrubbing his hands across his cheeks.

Oh, but he smelled like Frodo. The scent of Frodo was on his skin... soaking into every pore... seeping ever deeper into his heart...

Sam buried his face in his hands, drowning in waves of longing.

* * *

By the time Sam emerged from the bathing chamber, Frodo had set the table, poured the wine and was just removing perfectly golden biscuits from the oven. He froze, tray hovering in mid-air, face flushed from the heat of the fire, as he looked at the silent figure standing in the kitchen doorway. Something was wrong. Something had upset Sam. The joy of their afternoon together was absent from his eyes.

Frodo carefully set the hot tray on the counter, and laid down the tea towel he'd used to guard his hands. He busied himself with stirring the bubbling pot of stew.

“I have to go,” Sam said.

“Yes,” Frodo said quietly. “I think you should. It would be best for you if you did.”

Sam hesitated, frowning, hovering there uncertainly. Clearly he had expected a protest.

Frodo steeled himself to play the familiar role of being The Concerned Master. No more than this. No more than this would propriety allow.

“The snow hasn't let up, I'm afraid, Sam. It's dark now, and you'll need a light to see your way home.” He bundled all the biscuits save one or two in the tea towel. “You may as well have these,” he laughed, proud that his voice did not falter. “With my apologies to your sisters for making you so late to supper.”

Frodo thrust the bundle out for Sam to take. But Sam's eyes widened, nostrils flaring, and he quickly backed away.

Frodo froze, the biscuits suspended in midair for the second time.

“Sam?” he whispered.

* * *

He couldn't bear it. That lingering aroma of fresh soap and oil clung to his master: tantalizing, intoxicating, and further perfumed now with Frodo's own sweet body scent...

The urge to growl built in Sam's throat. The urge to take... command... possess... consumed him as the poorly banked fires of his desire flared into a blazing flame. His self-control was slipping. He had to go. He had to flee. Now. Right now. Before he did something incredibly stupid. Before he did something he could never take away with a soft spoken apology...

“Sam?” Frodo repeated, carefully backing himself up till his hip bumped the tabletop. Trembling hands deposited his unwanted offering on the gleaming wood.

_Go. Get out! Don't let him see..._

But ignoring the voice of reason, Sam slowly lifted his eyes to meet his master's wide-eyed stare.

* * *

“Oh...” Frodo murmured. _That can't be Sam... Not my Sam. Not my sweet, shy gardener... That's no innocent lad before me. I know that look. I've seen it in my mirror. I've dreamed it on his face. But I can't be seeing it now. This can't be real._

“Sam?” he whispered.

Sam made no reply. Only the wild pulse beating at the base of his throat betrayed that he was not carved in stone.

 _You wouldn't dare_ , Frodo thought, with all the innocent wonder of a child. Uncertainly, he eyed the familiar face before him, made unfamiliar now by it's heavy-lidded, smouldering gaze.

A shy smile curved Frodo's lips as he stepped forward, halting a few steps away from the waiting, watching Sam.

Warm fingers made gentle contact with the back of Frodo's head. For an instant, there was no sound or motion save the whisper of snow against the windowpane. And then Sam carefully wrapped Frodo in his arms and kissed him. And then he kissed him again. And again.

Frodo's arms locked tightly around Sam and he laughed for joy, the vibrations tickling against their tongues, making them both moan and press closer together.

And the snow kept tumbling down.


End file.
